A Study in Airships
by Starr Whompin
Summary: Airship/Steampunk Johnlock AU. John is the co-captain of one of England's finest airships, a job that's respectable and mostly calm. All the calm passiveness is thrown aside, however when detective and opium addict, Sherlock Holmes, brother of the ship's owner, is brought in. John doesn't like his rudeness, but there's something about him that he might. Rated M for future scenarios
1. An Introduction of Sorts

The wind hit against the hull, rocking the ship slightly and blowing the sail with great ferocity. The ship was built soundly and there was no real danger, but the newer passengers could be seen wobbling and holding on to the walls and railings in fear and doubt. In the early dawn, standing at the helm, was John Watson, veteran and former war doctor, now the co-captain of the SS Reichenbach. As the captain came in from his short but heavy sleep, he stepped back for him.

"How has she been holding up, Watson?" He asked, gripping the wheel.

"She's gone very smoothly, sir," He told him. "There was a light raincloud that I could not fully avoid, but no real complications."

"Good to hear, Watson," He replied, then focussed his attention on controlling the mighty ship.

John nodded. "I'll begin my rounds, then."

They would be docking that day, though they had only a handful of days before. This time, however, they were not getting supplies or even newly trained officials and their personal cargo, or dropping off old supplies and old passengers, but picking up a singular, very significant man. This was sure to cause a stir among the passengers so they had not spoken to any of them about the reason for this stop, but the docking itself was sure to cause it anyway, as it always did.

As he stepped onto the main deck, he was proven correct. Informed or not, The SS Reichenbach's passengers would be absolutely filled with excitement. He remembered, as he often did, his days on a ship much like the one he was on, but much more inforced and much stronger, and filled with soldiers. He had seen so much blood and death and destruction that he would never forget, and the excitement of these passengers was reminding him of those who would never feel it again. He liked to think that he was a veteran, no longer a soldier for England, walking firmly away from chaos in disdain and exhaustion, but in truth he knew he was still a pawn. He was sailing their ship to be their spies, and transporting those trained just for it- and the biggest problem of all, was that he almost didn't have a problem with it. He shuddered slightly and looked at those around him, the families, mostly, of the crew, not any soldiers- at least no soldiers that would be seeing warfare on this ship.

They were gossiping to each other, the women straightening up with wide eyes when they saw him, then quickly going into more enthusiastic, hushed speech. His eyes moved from them, now looking at the men who were speaking loudly in their groups, placing various bets about the supplies they were stopping for. John began to walk again, leaning a little harder on his cane, the strain of standing in the helm for hours always impacting him a little more than he was comfortable admitting. He took his watch out of his pocket to check the time. Just three hours until docking and the rumors and gossip would fade away until their next landing, which was scheduled for no earlier than six weeks from now.

As he passed the passengers many of them would gossip hurriedly or greet him with the obvious hope of getting extra information. The exception seemed to be The Woman. She flashed him a smile he couldn't quite call sultry, as he had seen her at her best. She was leaning against the wall with an air of simple seduction, bodice showing just enough to be improper. He was still not entirely sure how she had ever gotten onto the ship, but it was well-known that she had the money to pay (which she did without any word of it) and that taking her off the ship, or threatening to, would surely cause nothing short of a riot. The men, and even the woman, all loved her, a strange phenomenon that even touched the captain. John felt an empty neutralness for her, annoyed occasionally by her crass, but generally finding not but a thing wrong with her enough to lose her any kind of privilege that they could take away.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," She greeted him, eyes twinkling in a way he could imagine might get her what she wanted with some, but would not with him- a fact they both knew.

"Ms. Adler," He responded, tipping his hat with a small gesture and a serious, slightly tired, expression on his face.

"Today's the day, is it not?" She said with enough feign innocence to make him actually crack a small smile. "It's gotten the ship quite curious."

"Does that include you, Ms. Adler?" John asked her, feeling as if he did not want to hear the answer at all.

"Why of course not," She replied sounding authentic this time. "I already know."

"Do you?" He stated doubtfully. It was true that The Woman was infamous for knowing far too much, but this information was classified and he hardly believed that she could have gotten it so easily. More so, he did not believe that she would keep a thing that was so popular, completely to herself.

"Yes, I believe I do," She said confident with a smile shaded with mystery. "It's a Holmes."

He tried to hide his surprise and significant annoyance, but he knew it shined through enough for her to be absolutely amused by it.

"I am correct," She added. "You can say I am."

"I will say nothing," He refused, three words he deeply regretted as soon as they left him, for he knew they proved her right.

She simply laughed and asked for nothing more and told him no more either if she did indeed have anymore she could have shared. He walked away from her, tenser than before, and began watching the passengers again, and checking the crew. His mind began to wander, first lingering on the confusion he had about Irene Adler's incessant knack for gathering information she shouldn't have, then he forced himself to change the subject, and began to think the way the others on the ship were. He knew the man's name and his importance, his reason for being on their ship- both technically and politically- but not much more than that. It was said he was a man of not just awesome mind and wit, but of elegance.

His curiosity was spectacularly present, but he did not linger on the subject for long. The ship felt sturdy under his feet and he could see the sun behind them, hidden only slightly by a dense cloud the captain had recently maneuvered around with ease. The wind moved across his experienced face like a low sigh, and his eyes searched the ship for misdeeds. Reichenbach was not a sinful ship- there was occasional gambling and the pleasures provided by The Woman, but those were simply gentlemen's fancies- and so he did not exactly expect any sudden debacles, but he searched for it anyway, examining the ship with his eyes and leaning heavily on his strong cane.

The day went slow, but not too much slower than the ones before it had. The crew was working smoothly and passengers were not up in arms enough to become a true problem. The winds had sped up more but other than the flapping of his coat, John hardly noticed it. The clouds and darkened, however, and he _did_ notice _this_ development. His feet and cane brought him to the captain again, knowing the other man was known for becoming part of the worn wood surrounding him if allowed to, and losing his individual focus. He was a good captain, John admired him for this, but he had a tendency to look past the danger and forget that the chaotic beauty he often revelled in was also something to fight against or at least prepare for.

"A storm is moving in," He told him with no pause once reaching the helm.

"Ah, yes, so it is," The captain replied slowly. "I suppose we should prepare, Watson."

And so their crew set about taking down their flags and starting to leave the main deck. The tarps had been pulled across the decks, dark and strong and resistant. The only people above were John and the Captain, who watched the storm with eyes shaded with fear and calculation. Below them there were flashes of lightning, rods faded and distantly small, but bright. They could hear a distant clap of thunder, and with that the rain began.

There were few clouds above them, but the ones that were were pouring on them mercilessly. The ship tried with all her might to dodge the heavy clouds surrounding her, but the gaps between them were narrowing more by the moment, and eventually, much too soon, they could not be dodged at all. The ship plunged them into the gray fog, the water creating it sticking and sinking into the wood they stood on. Visibility decreased exponentially as they sailed through clouds upon clouds. The wind was raging now, and they could see a dark trail of smoke next to them, which they knew had come from the back of the ship and had travelled to them quickly and erratically

They stood their ground on the journey which became more dangerous and less stable with every turn of the wheel. Hands gripping at the wood, they tried with all they could muster to not be flung forward. John pulled at the rope, lowering their position in the sky, in the hopes that they could find the bottom of this hell they were attempting to fly through. Alas, there seemed to be no end nor a bottom to this storm. Time passed as slowly as if they had had to smith it themselves, fighting against the wind and squinting through the fog. Checking his watch once more, John found that it would be time dock soon. He considered voicing this to the captain, but thought better of it, letting him focus on navigation and survival instead of errands.

It felt like the second coming when finally they could see blue, grey as that blue turned out to be. The wind was still fighting them, but felt as if it had begun to get tired and no longer had a heart for it. John let himself slump against the wall, leg aching and heart nearly palpitating. Slowly let his lids fall over his eyes and he took in deep breaths, attempting to calm himself. After what could have been seconds or perhaps minutes, he reopened his eyes. The sky was much clearer, though there was still many a sign of the storm, and he knew that it had not passed, they had merely passed it.

"It seems as if we could be right on time," The captain said suddenly, one hand on the wheel, one holding a dark brass compass. "If we were not exceptionally off course."

"Should we turn around?" John asked, not liking the idea, but willing to accept the captain's decision if it was justified.

"No, I don't believe so," He replied. "I think it's best to not delve back into the storm. We shall wait. I'm afraid, however, we'll be waiting quite a time."

"The storm will still be on land," John responded with a nod. "How long do you think it will take to stop completely?"

"I cannot be sure," The captain began. "but I would guess no longer than two hours, hopefully a bit less."

John sighed, exhausted by the thought of the storm and waiting for it to pass. They sailed forward for what must have been just under an hour, then sailed back in the other direction for longer. There did not seem to be anymore lightning, fortunately, and as they travelled the thunder became quieter and quieter until John was quite sure that it had disappeared.

With care and ease, the ship was brought lower until they could properly make out the land, and then brought down to reach it. Gracefully it ascended until it reached a full stop on the ground, its belly skimming on the ground before it stood regally and expectantly on the empty dock in front of a large black building. The building, John saw as he approached the railing to leave the ship, had a small gathering of people in front of it.

The captain had made it clear through their experience together that he did not like to leave his ship unless necessary, and he had also made it clear a few days ago that he did not deem this as necessary. With this knowledge in hand, John left Reichenbach without him and went to greet those waiting for them.

"Good morning," He said as he neared them, their heads already turned to him in anticipation. "I'm Dr. John Watson, I am the co-captain of the SS Reichenbach. I'm dreadfully sorry for the delay, the storm put us off quite a bit."

He reached a hand out in greeting and one of the men stepped up towards him. He was taller than John and had silver hair and a formal outfit which coupled with his posture to create a picture of a man who had gone through training. He could guess that he was an official of some sort, but couldn't be sure exactly what. The man took his outstretched hand into a very firm handshake and smiled casually.

"Greg Lestrade," He introduced himself. "I'm to be your captain of the guard."

"Captain of the guard?" John questioned him incredulously. They had not had a captain of the guard since the very first trips on the The Reichenbach. Their guards from then on had mainly governed themselves, and had been doing a fine job of it. More curious, was the fact that this man was not the one he had been told to retrieve, and that they had only spoken to them about a single new passenger.

"Yes," Lestrade replied easily. "Mycroft Holmes has assigned me to to tighten security on his ship. I'm also accompanying Sherlock."

At the sound of the name, a dark figure moved behind him, letting out a small noise that could be interpreted as either a sigh or groan. John was surprised to feel himself grow more excited. He only had so much to go on, he hadn't an idea of what he should expect. He suddenly felt oddly shabby as he imagined the man stepping forward, well dressed and and dignified and with an air of money. His breath caught.

"Ah, come on, Sherlock," Lestrade said, moving a hand backwards to beckon the man forward.

With a scraping noise of wood pushing harshly against gravel, the figure grew to its full height and left the shadows. John felt his eyes widen considerably and uncontrollably. He was a tall man, much taller than himself, dressed in a long black coat, with black curls of hair on the top of his head. It may have looked striking if the hair had not been matted and wild and the long black coat draped over his altitudinous figure, twisted and smeared with dirt. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pale as if his veins were carrying nothing at all. The blue scarf around his neck was drooping off of him and had a dark stain on it that he didn't wish to think about. He looked clearly annoyed as if this all bored him, but John thought it was unrealistic to think he could focus enough to even _be_ bored. His reddened but still somehow sharp eyes locked on John and moved down his form quickly.

"A soldier," Sherlock stated, the boredness in his expression now noticeable in his voice. "Injured during combat about a year ago- not too badly, it was more the fever that did it, just enough to get you sent back home- something you're still not sure if you're happy about- oh you say you are, but you miss it. Sailing isn't the same, no thrill, not like death. You respect your captain- a little too much in my opinion- you have a gun in your pocket which you are never going to use but secretly hope you'll have to, you are currently craving your favorite tea- gunpowder, which is a telling in itself, honestly- and you are most likely about to say-"

"That's amazing!" John cut off his rapid speech and was surprised by both of their outbursts. He felt a little violated to be honest, but the accuracy and skill he had just witnessed was beyond words. The other man looked a little surprised as well for a moment, then it passed and disappeared into his once again blank and bored face.

Sherlock leaned against the wall gently. Lestrade was looking at him a little disapprovingly, which John somehow felt Sherlock was aware of but actively ignoring. He could see exhaustion in the skin of the man and it was no guess when he decided that the man was most certainly under opium's influence. It looked almost as if they had just drug him out of the den mere moments before them meeting.

His attention moved off of Sherlock and it was only then that he noticed the other man who had yet to speak.

"Michael Stamford?" John said with surprise.

The man smiled brightly at him. "Nice to see you again, John. I heard that you had been off fighting for the country."

John did not say a word as he knew this was no longer a question.

"How has life off the battlefield been then, Doctor?"

John measured his potential answer before speaking, feeling more aware of himself and his choices as Sherlock Holmes was sure to find from it much more than that which he tried to construe.

"Very different," He said finally, forcing a slightly more cheery tone into his words. He heard a small scoff and ignored it. "What are you doing these days? What are you doing _here_?"

"I'm Sherlock's acquaintance," He answered, to which Sherlock rolled his slightly dead looking eyes with another noise. "I know him, I mean, and when I heard that you were the captain of the ship he was going onto I offered to come. I'm support I suppose- and a good man to have around if a health issue arises." His eyes flickered to the still impassive Sherlock.

"Co-captain," John responded, a little late.

"This is so mundane," Sherlock complained, eyes closing tiredly. "Must you continue in this tedious direction?" He opened one eye again, clearly inspecting them both. "Oh. I suppose you must."

John felt himself prickle in annoyance and offense. Michael, on the other hand, did not seem bothered in the slightest. To John's utter surprise, he actually laughed. After considering responses, John decided not to answer him at all, speechless from the confusion this man was forcing upon him. He was startlingly hard to understand, and, even after such a short meeting, John felt it safe for him to assume that he never would.

Sherlock straightened out of his slump, no longer supported by the wall, and began to walk, suddenly leading them. John walked behind him and watched how the man came aboard the ship as if he had been on it for ages. He stopped at the railing, hands tight on the wood.

"My quarters," Sherlock said with no inflection as John and Lestrade gathered onto the ship.

"What?" John asked, not sure of the intended question.

"I need sleep," He told him with annoyance he had not even tried to hide. He raised two fingers to his temple, rubbing it aggressively. "My quarters, where are they?"

"Below deck and down the hall on the left," John replied with some hesitation. He paused before adding, "I'll take you."

"If you must."

Feeling distant and strangely perplexed, he led the man down below deck and to his quarters, though he wasn't sure he could call it leading as Sherlock was, once again, in front of him. As they reached the door that hid the small space Sherlock would stay in, John slowed. Sherlock reached the door and opened it with no hesitation, instantly going in.

John faltered and then said to the door, "I think you'll enjoy it here" as he told every passenger.

"Oh please." The door opened again. "This is going to be dull."


	2. Deductions and A Lack of Focus

John spent his time that night as he spent most of his time- pacing the ship, making sure everything was running smoothly and there was no harm done to any of the crew or passengers. When his watch had alerted him to the fact that three hours had passed since midnight, he had taken over for the captain, letting him gain as much sleep as he could for the night. Usually the nights were peaceful, excluding mainly just natural anomalies, such as storms. He had no problem with focus on most nights, concentration coming easy in the dark, steady night. This one, however, was not bringing out the best in him, and he felt less like a captain than ever. The star filled sky could not hold his attention, and the wheel felt like nothing under his hands.

His mind, he did not like to admit, was more interested in the day's events. He was wary of the man they had been sent for. Though he had been not in his mind and hardly as powerful seeming as expected, there was something dangerous about him that was putting him on guard. He saw too much- a fact that he _had_ been made aware prior, though he supposed he had underestimated. He was sure to be a disruption.

Everyone had been so interested in him before he came, John had been fully fearful that his actual arrival would throw them into some kind of frenzy. They had, in fact, been even more curious when he came aboard, and their questions hit him in floods and waves, but he did not drown in them, and they did not relish it as much as he had thought they would. They were whispering now, he knew, among themselves again, but their words lacked the intensity that they had had hours before. They knew who he was, and to them, he supposed, that made him a mystery solved. John, however, thought that perhaps the mystery was just beginning.

He couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong- there was a feeling of dread on the air he was sailing through. He knew it was paranoid and far beyond reason, and so he tried to overlook the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was not convinced that it was a feat that he could follow through with.

He took hold of his thoughts and pulled them away from their current destination. There was something about that man, and he felt his mind fluidly roll now off of premonitions and fall to him again. There was something off about this Sherlock Holmes, not just the opium that had been, he liked to assume, clouding his judgement, but John could not think of it as sinister. He could merely see it as something not quite as it should have been, like a sharp object protruding from somewhere, not a weapon on its own, just odd how it was, but potentially, he thought, very dangerous.

He tried yet again to put his mind back on his task of sailing the ship forward. Again, the stars were blurring above him and his hands were growing restless against the wheel, tapping absent mindedly on the wood. There was a soft glow in the sky now, alerting him that it wasn't much longer until his shift would be over. He sighed and tried to get lost in the task of sailing instead of in his own mind.

"Watson?" A familiar voice called to him.

He turned from his wheel to see the captain standing near to the helm.

"Captain?" He questioned the figure before him. "It's not your shift for-" He checked his pocket watch. "an hour and a half at least. You need to sleep."

"Ah, I've slept enough," He told him easily. "I'd like to say it's your turn now, but I'm afraid there's an issue you need to deal with."

"An issue, sir?"

"The new passenger, Sherlock Holmes, is causing quite a ruckus," He told him with a small sigh.

"What do you mean?"

"I... I think it's best if you just go and look."

John nodded and decided to do just that. He left the helm and made his way to Holmes' quarters.

It was quiet on the main deck, too early for anyone to be up quite yet, and he couldn't imagine what kind of a ruckus could possibly be occurring. As he descended into the lower parts of his ship, the strain to his imagination instantly evaporated.

His ears could pick up deep tones of music, and as he walked it became louder and louder to the point of actually being obnoxious. The music would not have seemed such an issue on its own, but as it was accompanied by the cries and angry shouts of other passengers, John determined it to be a problem indeed.

It came to no shock when he discovered that the room that held whatever was producing this music was none other than Sherlock Holmes' himself. He did not get to it before his attention was called and his thoughts interrupted.

"I want to get off, Captain Watson," Hilda Hope called out to him, reaching out her fingers to pull him nearer. Fat tears were blooming from her eyes. "He's ruined everything."

"I'm sorry, but-" He did not finish before he was pulled yet another way.

"Captain Watson!" Sarah Donovan said loudly to him. She was a member of the guard on the S.S. Reichenbach and he had had little issue with her in all the time she had worked there- in fact, he had no reason to see much of her at all. "I cannot work with this man. He should not be allowed as part of any society, and he should not be allowed around _me_. He is only fit to be a-" She sucked in a breath, eyes flaring in anger and mind grabbing for words. "a freak!"

"I'm sorry," John said more forcefully. "but that cannot be arranged. He is on this ship until Mycroft Holmes tells us that he is not and there isn't a thing any of us can do about that. You will work with him, I'm sorry, but you have to."

She frowned and looked as if she wanted to argue, but thankfully she did not, and he was able to make his way successfully to the door. He hesitated as he raised his hand to it, then rapped on it with his knuckles. There was a small pause in the playing before continuing on as if no one has knocked at all. John tried again, and this time the music stopped for more than a second. A loud sigh came from inside the room, followed by heavy footsteps.

"What is it _now_?" Sherlock called out in pure irritation as he turned the handle on his door. "I told you she was in the second to last room on the left, can't you remember directions? Do you have an issue distinguishing between left and right?" His face became visible, and after a moment of staring at someone who was not there, his gaze dropped down to John. "Oh. You."

"What..." He wanted to be eloquent and powerful, but instead he could only say, "What in the world is going on?"

"Nothing much," Sherlock replied with an air of annoyance. "This ship of yours really is the most unlively thing I've stepped on- and I have investigated dead elephants."

"Well, what is all... this?" John looked back to the crowd of his passengers. It certainly did not look like "nothing" was all that was going on.

"I play violin," He replied, an answer that did nothing less to confuse John. "I'm sure Mycroft made you aware of this."

Of all the things he could have made them aware of, he had indeed made them aware of his violin playing. John was starting to wish their conversation had been a little longer.

"Uh, yes."

"I was attempting to play a song and it apparently bothered some of these..."

"I only asked him if he could play softer," Lawrence Hudson told John loudly. "and he began to make the worst accusations about my character that I have ever heard- all untrue, of course. Mr. Thomas May came with me to investigate and this man nearly gave him a heart attack."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes, and honestly John was surprised that he did not. Instead, he shook his head looking both annoyed and amused.

"I am not the one that 'nearly gave Mr. May a heart attack'," He said. "I believe that would be his wife."

"What are you trying to say?" John asked, intrigued even as he fought to stay professional.

"I simply informed him that his wife was a few doors down with Mr. Bradstreet," Sherlock said as if he found nothing wrong with this. "I think I did him quite a favor, did I not? Though he can't judge her too hardly, seeing as what he was doing with Miss Hope while she was gone." His eyes moved to the still sobbing Hilda. The Mays were nowhere to be found.

"And the accusations Mr. Hudson spoke of," He continued. "were all true- though I believe you already knew that. You'd have to be an idiot not to."

There had been whispers of the things Mr. Hudson did for as long as he had been there. Their biggest source of gossip, Langdale Pike, had let them all become aware of the things Mr. Hudson did in secret. These things involved drug use, illegally selling drugs aboard the ship, sexual deviancy, and aggression towards many women- usually his wife. John had never been fond of him at all, but he was influential enough that he couldn't do a thing about any of it. The captain _did_, however, ask him not to sell to the crew, as it could be dangerous. John wasn't sure if he even adhered to this rule.

He did not respond to Sherlock Holmes, but the man looked slightly pleased, as if he had agreed.

"Absolutely preposterous!" Mr. Hudson rang out, face hot. "Who do you think you are to slander my character, sir?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," He replied with a tone that John thought he enjoyed a little too much. "The man with the ability to have you incarcerated."

With these words, Mr. Hudson's face turned from red to a soggy white, and his eyes widened in fear. He opened his mouth to speak again, and then instead when into his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Message my brother," Sherlock said, bringing his gaze to John. With this, he spun back to face away from them all, and went back to his room. As soon as the door closed, John could hear the violin start up again.

Though he knew he should be angry at the command, at the problems that this man had already caused, John instead felt a rush of relief- and a rush of respect.


	3. Continuations and Horror

After spending a few stunned and unsure moments below deck, John had found his way back up to message Mycroft Holmes for his brother. It felt odd and not exactly professional, but he did it anyway for some reason not completely clear to him. If this was how Sherlock Holmes always acted, he supposed, Mycroft should be used to it anyway.

The crew had not been riled up like the passengers, he decided as he watched them work, no less focussed or hard working as any other day. They worked diligently, no need for gossip or arguments. The passengers, he knew, were still less than joyous, but he was not able or willing to do much to help them. For most of them, it seemed that their unhappiness stemmed from their own issues that they themselves created. His job was not to help them sort out their lives, and though he didn't like to see upset on his ship, or his people in an uproar, he was not about to make it so.

The sky was clear and it seemed as if it would remain so. He had checked it as soon as getting back on deck, and then had done so several more times mainly just out of habit. He had little to do, something that occasionally felt like a blessing, but more than he liked to admit, bored and annoyed him out of his mind. It was only sane for him to be glad to have such a calm job, especially after the injuries he had witnessed in the army. He hated to admit that while he did often think about the contrast of his life now and then, these thoughts were not always followed with the obligatory relief of changing things and getting out of the danger. He checked the sky's conditions once more.

He paced back and forth on the deck, feeling as if his skin itself was too constricting. He sighed as he moved past the same mark on the wood over and over again. This time, just before the day started, was the always the hardest to keep himself concentrated on his work. There was a sort of indescribable longing that gripped him too tightly. He took in a breath and attempted to banish it.

His eyes flicked off of the railing of the ship to the door to the lower deck. He didn't expect there to be more problems, but he supposed that he should most likely check anyway. With his head still slipping away from concentration, he made his way down.

There were much less people now out of their quarters, and the violin was still shouting from behind Sherlock Holmes' door. Slowly, he walked across, inspecting the few people still there, just two women and a young man whose name escaped him. They did not look enraged as the others had before, or even annoyed, they just looked intrigued, a reaction that John could not disapprove of, as he understood completely. They looked at him as he made his way by and one of them women turned, gesturing nervously now to the other two to follow her, and he watched as they all left behind a near by door.

He paused now, in front of Sherlock's door. He wasn't entirely sure why he had come back down in the first place, and now that he was in front of this strange man's door, this troubled him more than he thought it might have, and the memories of the trouble he had already caused tore him between wanting to insist on knowing what he was trying to do to his ship, and walking away. The door swung open. He realized he had not even noticed the violin playing having stopped.

"Are you just planning on standing there then?" Sherlock said, looking down at him. "I assume you've come to ask me of my intentions or to berate me for whatever small chaos you believe I've caused." He stared at him when he didn't respond. "Well?" Another thought crossed his mind. "Have you messaged my brother?"

His mind moved too slowly and it was long seconds later before John could reply the oversimplified answer of, "Yes."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I suppose it's safe to assume you can follow orders then. That'll come in handy."

"Are you planning on investigating?" John said finally, the question he had been trying to voice now readily on his tongue. "I mean, you're aboard to investigate for your brother, but it doesn't seem like you've begun at all yet. Unless whatever that was before is part of some hugely diabolical scheme."

"No," Sherlock replied. "I haven't begun at all yet- but I plan to. Mycroft would never stop messaging me if I didn't."

"Uh, well, that's good to hear," John said awkwardly. He stood there a silent moment more before Sherlock began closing the door. "Wait!"

Sherlock looked down at him, waiting.

"When are you beginning?"

"I don't know," He drawled, sounding as if he was being nagged by his mother.

"Now?"

He gave him a strange look as if John were mad. "I'm composing."

"Oh."

Without another word, he promptly shut the door between them. This time there was more of a pause before the music started up again, and it was not an angry shout as it had been before, but light and sweet and mysterious. John was tempted to stay outside the door and listen to it for a while. It was the thought of Sherlock discovering him more than anything, that made him push this thought away and ascend the steps again.

The air felt different on the main deck, and somehow he felt older. He could not imagine anything yet to come this day, even with the excitement of the morning passed. It was sure to be a passing problem that would not trouble their stagnant time. He could feel his mind preparing itself to wander as his eyes inspected the slightly splinter wood at the edge of the ship. He checked the sky's conditions again.

He had received back word from Mycroft Holmes and it did nothing but make him wish that he knew the man enough to understand how his words were expected to be taken. It was written rather casually but this was not a casual accusation or a casual imprisonment, and he himself was not a casual man. He could read it as angry or exhausted or pitying or even as someone talking a small delusional child. It maddened him that he did not know what this man was trying to get across and so did not know what to expect when he would see him just the next day to take Mr. Hudson away. He considered for only a moment asking Sherlock what he believed his brother thought about the matter, but after just a moment of thought he decided it was best not to ask anything of Sherlock.

He had instead shown the letter to the captain, who had then taken his mid-day break to study it himself and decide the best course of action. John took control of the ship, the job he was most comfortable with, and firmly pushed these other thoughts out of his mind. He navigated with little thought and all the concentration that he had. The sun was bright above them and shone a strange light gray through the tinted glass covering the opening John looked out. His time sailing passed far too soon and the captain was back before he had thought more than a few minutes had passed.

The captain did not bring any new ideas to him and seemed just as baffled as he had been by the response. He had decided, though, to ignore all meanings they might have overlooked or misunderstood, and simply bring Mr. Hudson as planned and hope for the best. This plan was not the most thought out or the safest, but would be, at least, well executed.

John moved aside for the captain to take him place at the helm yet again and retired back to the main deck, searching for unrest and breakage. A face caught his eye and he slowed subconsciously, hand tightening its grip on his cane.

"Ah, hello, Co-captain Watson," Gregory Lestrade greeted him with a grin. "I trust the ship is going well."

"No, I believe it is _we _who must trust _you _to keep the ship going well."

"Yes, that is true," Lestrade replied. "and it is. You have a fine amount of guards and well trained ones at that. I'm still getting acquainted to everything, but you should be proud of what you have here."

It sounded more polite than fully true, but John smiled anyway. It had been a long time since anyone had given him a compliment outside of very polite conversation.

"Why thank you," He told him. "I'm sure you'll do well here, you have even better training, and we haven't got much to investigate. Hopefully the boredom won't hurt you."

"I doubt it will," He replied, then shook his hand and left again. John found himself wondering the meaning of such a reply.

This passing conversation skimmed along the surface of his mind as he tended to his duties. It most likely meant nothing, but the phrasing had felt off somehow. John found it hard to believe that is was just a casual remark, even as he tried to keep himself from becoming paranoid. He walked about the decks, inspecting what he should, speaking when necessary, and he felt the time pass like it was dragging on and on, and felt it pass as if it had only been moments. He was feeling a strange exhaustion when he heard a very familiar deep voice say, "No, that doesn't make any sense at all."

He cocked his head in the direction of the words to see Sherlock coming onto the main deck, two guards behind him.

"Tell me, Anderson, do you ever think at all?"

The guardsman, Mr. Anderson, looked highly annoyed at this comment, something John couldn't blame him for, and he began to retort when Sherlock easily cut him off.

"Molly Hooper," He said now, addressing the other guard in such an informal way it made John extremely uncomfortable. "Fetch me a hook."

"What?" She replied nervously, clearly also taken aback.

"A hook, I need a hook," He said impatiently. "Grab me one."

"Oh!" She left to retrieve this item without another word. John knew very little about Mrs. Hooper, including, until this point, even her appearance. He was aware that she was a guard on the ship, and that she had medical practice, but this was about it. He found it odd that out of all of the guards on the ship that Sherlock Holmes would pick her to accompany him, as well as Anderson. He pondered the idea of them being thrown together and was highly curious to know if that was indeed what had happened. He supposed that he would just have to wonder about it to himself or let it go.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes," He found himself saying. He approached the other man a little hesitantly, using his cane as little as possible. "Started investigating now, have you?"

"Clearly," He replied, but did not sound as annoyed as he had moments before.

"With Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Hooper?"

"I'd hardly say I was investigating _with_ them," He replied. "more like leading them behind me and hoping they pick something up."

"Ah." John replied blankly, no further replies coming to mind even as he grabbed for them. Behind Sherlock, Anderson stood with his arms crossed tightly and an annoyed and guarded look upon his face.

"Well," John said, slowly, trying to make his mind work again. "I do hope it works out for all of you. I must be on my way."

"No you don't," Sherlock murmured as John turned away, as if he couldn't help himself.

"What?" He asked, surprised.

"You aren't going anyway imparticular," He told him. "You've been wandering the ship, your fingers on your left hand are slightly dented from tapping them on your cane in boredom, and you've just turned in the direction that you were coming from when I arrived."

"Oh."

"You didn't have any real destination," Sherlock repeated. "but I believe if you go into the fifth door on the left in the lower deck, you'll find something quite illegal."

"Oh," John said yet again. "thank you. I... I shall look into it."

And with that he spun around on the spot and promptly walked away from the man, face warm and stomach squeezed uncomfortably. He tried to ignore how flustered he had become and and did no more than positively hate it when he could not. His concentration attempted to place itself fully into the task at hand, and for once found itself successful. Down the stairs, across the hallway, he arrived at the place. Though he had been able to force his focus, he could not force enthusiasm. Whatever it was, he didn't feel as if it could be anything of much interest. In the end, he was correct.

He opened the door with no hesitation and was not prepared. In front of him stood Miss Hilda Hope, in a vulnerable state. She stood, half slumped against the wall, legs wide, half naked. Her face was twisted with the agony of physical and emotional pain, a mask that John had never witnessed before and hoped never to again. Below her was her older sister, Sybil, crouched there with a serious yet worried look. The lamplight from the hall behind the door flashed against the thin metal branching between the hands of Sybil and the underneath of her sister. Hilda's eyes opened and widened with terror as soon as they noticed and recognized him.

"P- please, Mr. Watson," She choked out. Sybil yerked her head up, along with her hand, eliciting a groan from Hilda. "Please."

John stood in the doorway, mouth ajar but speechless. His mind groggily waded through a stiff sea of shock. He began to unfreeze from his position, the eyes of the horrified, pleading sisters still on him.

"I..." His hand tightened on the door handle. "Hurry up." Quickly, he backed out of the room, slamming the door in front of his face. His heart was pounding within his chest and he wasn't sure how to deal with what he had just witnessed.

In the end, he walked away from the scene, scarred but silent. Her wasn't sure if he would ever be able to look at either Hope sister the same again, but he was determined not to let anything be known.


End file.
